


i got nine lives but i don't know which one i'm on

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Michael-centric, Multi, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, rt hybrid AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael can't see the end and he can't remember the beginning, but he has to start somewhere, right?</p>
<p>Through a flurry of winged-boys, rabbit ears, and winking slivers of silver, he'll find what he's looking for, even if it's not what he wanted in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i got nine lives but i don't know which one i'm on

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: self-harm
> 
> If you are triggered by this, use caution.
> 
> tags and relationships will change as the story progresses. before you read, let me clear something up. this fic is Michael's life (written from some of my own experiences). there will only be one chapter of similiar length that includes mavin, the rest of the chapters will focus around raychael. however, this is still a michael!centric fic so it will focus a lot on him. if you have any questions or are confused by anything, comment and i will try to answer! :)

Michael wasn't sure when it started.

The only thing he remembered from kindergarten was the fact that he, surprisingly enough, had been the only house cat hybrid. His mom had once told him that he had been the cutest kid in his entire class, with his perky ears and his silky tail. She said he had the softest fur and at the time, Michael had giggled and said thank you. He hadn't considered the fact that almost every other mom told their child the same exact thing.

He vaguely remembers sixth grade, when he had fat hands, fatter cheeks, and a head of unruly auburn curls. However, he can recall with almost perfect clarity the first time someone called him sausage fingers.

Sausage fingers was only the tip of the iceberg. Turns out twelve year olds were incredibly creative savages. His classmates had arsenals under their belts, spewing out insults like they were born just to do that.

Michael hadn't been particularly good at making friends to begin with, and being called tank, sausage, and even McFatty after one of the other kids saw his mom bring him McDonalds for lunch didn't help.

Sixth grade consisted mostly of Michael staying in during recess, playing video games by himself, and watching movies with his parents. He had been fine with that; it's not like he liked people that much to begin with.

Eventually, elementary passed and Michael was thrust into junior high. He had slimmed down over the summer, puberty finally feeling generous enough to give him something other than acne and the occasional crack in his voice. His fingers stopped resembling bratwurst and Michael couldn't help but spend hours staring at them, wondering where the fat had gone.

The kids from his old school didn't have a reason to call him tank, sausage, or McFatty anymore, and Michael quickly found himself alone alongside the tides of new faces.

He almost missed the insults, but at the same time, he was glad for their absence. Don't get him wrong, they fucking hurt, but something about being ignored felt worse.

Seventh grade was essentially the catalyst. Most of his first term was spent alone, struggling to figure out where he fit in with the whole equation that was school.

He joined a few clubs, dropped out of all of them, and switched around his electives until his counselor told him he was banned from changing classes unless there was a serious problem that required him to.

There never was, apart from the fact that he ended up stuck in Creative Writing, Intro to Art, and Basics of Sewing.

Creative Writing wasn't that bad. In fact, Michael enjoyed it more than he ever would admit to. The same went for Intro to Art.

Basics of Sewing quickly became his least favorite class and his lowest grade. He always found a way to prick himself on his needles, no matter how careful he tried to be.

He ignored the kids that said he did it on purpose as best as he could, even if more often than not, he had to excuse himself from the classroom before he knocked somebody out.

Michael couldn’t even comprehend the thought of hurting himself on purpose.

At the end of the first term, he experienced a few things that one might call life-changing.

The day had started out as normal as any other day. He woke up, ate breakfast, and headed off to school with his backpack in tow. Like clockwork, he was thirty minutes early. Michael enjoyed the empty hallways and the chance to finish any forgotten homework, what could he say? 

His first class, Algebra, began with him passing in the other night’s homework. However, if the barely legible answers were anything to go by, Michael had filled out the assignment that morning. He barely paid attention to the rest of period, up until their teacher handed out homework and let them work on it for the last ten minutes of class.

Second period was Intro to Art, and Michael spent the entire time doodling in his notebook. He didn't even look up when his teacher introduced a new student.

Michael spent most of his next class, Science, staring at his teacher’s horns. He had continuously flicked his ears back and forth, trying to imagine what it would be like to have them.

Lunch came and went by in a flash. Michael had ran out into one of the courtyards, his home lunch and his books clutched tightly in his arms.

He wolfed down his tuna sandwich, chugged his milk, and threw his apple over the fence into someone’s yard. Some dog, cat, or five year old kid would get it, he was sure of it.

The last twenty minutes of Michael’s lunch were spent dreading going to his next class. Nothing made him hate school more than sewing class, even the fact that he had no friends to chat with or hang out with on weekends topped it.

The moment the bell rang, a growl rumbled in his chest and his ears laid flat against his head. Michael trudged to class, his tail whipping back and forth. More than once it hit another student, but the curly-haired boy didn’t even bother to apologize. It’s not like getting smacked by a tail or two was uncommon.

When he stepped into class, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There was a new girl, a dog hybrid, sitting at the station directly behind his. She had a bright smile and even brighter hair. Michael glanced at his teacher, who was glued to her monitor, as if expecting some sort of explanation.

When he received none, he dragged himself to his station and dumped his books beneath it.

What had happened to the other girl?

Had she switched out?

It’s not like Michael gave a shit, but at least she hadn’t been a dog hybrid. The other girl had been some sort of bird, with small wings and sleek, white feathers. Fuck, had she switched out because of Michael? What the hell -

“Hi!” a cheery voice interrupted his train of thought. Michael turned to see the new girl staring directly at him. He couldn’t help but glance around, wondering if she was talking to somebody else.

“Hey?” Michael replied hesitantly.

“I’m Lindsay, I just moved here from Arlington,” she said, putting her elbows up onto her station before she rested her chin on her hands.

“I’m Michael, I’ve never been to Arlington.”

“Really? Not even to the Six Flags up there?” Lindsay asked, dumbfounded.

Michael shook his head and just as Lindsay opened her mouth to speak again, the late bell rang. The now-late students that weren’t in there to begin with started to filter in slowly, usually in pairs.

Class started just as sluggishly. Lindsay was called up and introduced. When asked what her three favorite things were, she replied enthusiastically,

“Cats, cake, and video games.”

When she returned to her station, Michael practically pounced on her with a barrage of questions.

“What system?” he asked, turning around in his chair to face her.

“Xbox, but I have a Wii and a DS too.”

“Favorite game?”

“Uh, I don’t know, there’s a lot.”

“That’s a fucking cop out and you know it,” Michael snorted, folding his arms.

“Well, I have been playing a lot of Legend of Zelda…”

“Shit, no way! I love those games.”

The rest of the class was spent talking to each other in hushed voices, stifling laughs when the other made a joke.

Just before the period ended, they quickly exchanged numbers, ignoring the small handful of kids that began snickering when they did. Michael pretended not to notice when he heard one of them sneer condescendingly,

"Look, little Mikey made a friend."

What he heard next though, made a growl build up in his throat.

"She's a fatass, guess they're perfect for each other."

"Can you tell she likes cake?"

"Fat or not, her hair is a fucking eyesore."

Lindsay must've noticed his temper flaring. She slid down low in her chair, stretched her leg out, and kicked Michael's chair. He glanced back at her, a confused look on his face.

Why wasn't she angrier, or even just sad?

She answered simply as she sat back upright, with a shrug and a small smile.

"Bitches ain't shit."

And that's how Michael made his first best friend.

The two quickly discovered that they shared the same lunch and quite a few classes. English, History, Intro to Art, and Basics of Sewing suddenly became Michael's favorite classes.

They reluctantly parted after History, with Lindsay heading off to Algebra and Michael to Creative Writing.

When he got to class, his teacher was already chattering happily to the few students who had gotten there earlier than him. He caught strands of her rant as he shuffled to his desk, his mind wandering back and forth from Lindsay and his teacher.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" she squealed, clapping her hands.

Even if she was a little over the top, Ms. Eberle was his favorite teacher. Michael could never quite understand why such an outgoing teacher had such a bad reputation.

He had seen kids mime choking and gagging when they saw her as one of their teachers. Even other teachers grumbled and gossiped when they heard her name.

Admittedly, she had scared him at first.

On the first day, after his transfer into her class, she pulled him into the hallway and stared him down. With her hands on her hips and her eyes fixated into a glare, she said,

"Michael Jones, I need you to understand one thing before you join my class: I will not tolerate any slacking. I don't know what you thought when you decided to switch into my class, but do not think for a second that this class will be an easy A."

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, looking down at his feet. Even though Michael was practically half a foot taller than her and she herself was just a petite blonde, she intimidated the fuck out of him.

"You need to be nothing less than passionate to ace this class because I will make you work, I might even make you hate me for how hard I'm going to push you. Michael, look at me."

Michael's head practically snapped up.

"You might write things that you have to pull from the deepest depths of your person, things that'll make you want to sleep for thousands and thousands of years because it is so draining. I know this because I was just like you once, with a teacher just like me. My goal here is to make you love writing more than anything, even when you can't stand it."

He just watched her, wide-eyed. Michael had never seen a teacher like this. There would always be those who stood up in front of class and put on a show to inspire you to be the greatest you you can be, but he had never believed a word they had said.

Ms. Eberle, though, he felt like he could believe her.

"Do you understand, Michael?" she said, her voice firm and unrelenting.

"Of course," he answered, nodding.

"Good," Ms. Eberle replied, grinning. "Let's go back inside, we have a bit of free verse poetry to write."

She was a whirlwind, that was for sure.

The sound of nails clacking against his desk snapped him out of his train of thoughts. Michael looked up, alarmed, only to find Ms. Eberle standing in front of his desk. Her eyes were bright, her smile was wide, and her long, thin cat ears twitched every few moments or so, causing the tufts of hair on top of them to flick back and forth. Michael couldn't help but smile back, his own ears mirroring the movement of hers.

"You seem to be in a good mood today, Michael, did something awesome happen?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Well, I, uh, made a new friend," Michael replied, his voice practically a mumble. He felt embarrassed saying such a simple thing. Most everyone had a lot of friends, he felt weird knowing all he had was one.

"That's great!" Ms. Eberle said, a genuine tone of happiness in her voice. "Actually, that's perfect, you'll know just what to write about."

"What are we even doing today?" he asked curiously.

A sly grin spread over his teacher's face and she mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key before practically skipping away.

Michael eyed her suspiciously. He didn't know if her lack of a reply was a good thing or a bad thing.

The bell rang and the curly-haired boy knew he'd have the answer soon. The first few minutes of class were uneventful, considering Ms. Eberle had ran out the second the bell rang with a look of glee on her face. His classmates had all started chatting with each other, discussing their day and the hot gossip they had learned said day.

He pretended not to hear neither his nor Lindsay's name.

Ten minutes in, Ms. Eberle finally came back. In her arms was a medium-sized box, and by the look of strain on her face, it was quite heavy. There was a student, a ninth grader by the looks of it, with an identical box following close behind her.

After they set the boxes down on her desk, she dismissed the boy with a wave, a smile, and a warm adieu of,

"I can't believe you're going to high school next year. Make sure to visit me before the end of the year, okay, Miles?"

To which the boy, Miles, replied with,

"Yeah, of course, Ms. Eberle!"

He left with a smile, his tail wagging happily behind him.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ms. Eberle turned to her class with a wide grin.

Silence stretched between her and her students, until someone from the back of the class complained loudly,

"Come on, what's in the boxes?"

"I'm glad you asked!" she laughed, bouncing back over to her desk. "It's..."

She trailed off, giving herself a dramatic pause, before ripping open the top and pulling some of the content out.

"Journals!" she exclaimed, waving the bright blue journal around.

Most kids just groaned, dropping their heads onto their desks. Michael just stared at her, puzzled. This was what she had been so excited about?

"Oh, come on, don't be like that! Handing out journals is my favorite part of the school year," she said, giggling at their reactions.

She opened it and flipped through it with nimble fingers, showing off the empty pages to the class.

"Look, it's just chock full of blank slates! You could do literally anything with this journal."

"Like throw it away?" a boy a few seats away from him snorted snidely.

"If you want zero credit, of course," Ms. Eberle retorted without missing a beat.

"Okay, okay, let me tell you two things. One of these things you might like, the other one, not so much. Bad news is is that you have to write a full page in here every day."

There was a collective groan from the class.

"However, you can write anything you want in these. I mean absolutely anything. I'm not going to be reading these, all I'm going to be doing is checking to see if you completed your pages. You can even write the same word over and over again. I mean, if you want to bore yourself, then go right ahead."

"I do encourage you, though, to really let go when writing! Rant, cry, swear, put whatever you want in here. This journal is my gift to you. Now, when I call your name, come up and pick out a journal. There's a lot of different colors, so feel free to pick whatever you want. If I run out of a color you want, I might have a few extras in my cabinets."

Michael was the third person called up, just behind a small mouse hybrid who came scampering back to his desk with a magenta journal clasped tightly against his chest. He chose a light blue journal, because it reminded him of the diamonds in Minecraft.

When every student received the journal they wanted, Ms. Eberle gave them the rest of the class period to work on their very first entry.

Michael wrote about Lindsay, his favorite video games, and his latest dream where he had been a bear with a sword and an iron helmet, just running around the forest looking for knights to fight.

And over the course of the rest of his seventh grade, Lindsay and his journal became his closest friends. He filled those blank pages with thousands upon thousands of words, detailing his life and his imagination. He doodled in it and wrote down quotes he liked. On late nights, when Lindsay was sleeping over and Michael couldn't keep his eyes shut, he'd prod her awake to read her his poems and his entries.

She was the only person he trusted his writing with, even his mom couldn't pry anything out of him.

Of course, there were entries Michael didn't ever dare breathe a word of. There were countless poems and quotes that scared him just as much as loneliness did. They waxed poetic about scars and hatred, and being alone - about razors he was too afraid to pick up.

Just beneath a picture of Banjo and Kazooie that he had printed out for the sole purpose of covering it up, was a poem he had written at two in the morning, alone and angry.

> I thought about a world
> 
> Without me, and it
> 
> Looked as gray as it did yesterday,
> 
> And why the fuck
> 
> Does every night feel like
> 
> The end of a rope?

Michael knew when it all began, he just didn't want to admit it. How could he when he had spent countless hours of his school year and his summer hanging out with Lindsay?

He laughed every time they hung out, she made sure of that.

June was spent poolside at Lindsay's house, applying pounds of sunblock and periodically running inside to play a few rounds of whatever game was in her Xbox.

Michael's journal never left his side that entire month. When he brought it to Lindsay's, he tried not to feel lonely. He didn't like writing those kinds of words at her house.

July came and went. Lindsay and him went to concerts, water parks, and lakes, but Michael laughed a little bit more quietly at Lindsay's jokes and wrote a little less in his journal.

August ended too quickly and school started too soon. Lindsay left for two weeks for Florida to go visit her cousins. When she got back, they barely saw each other. They played plenty of co-op games over Xbox Live though, trading stupid jokes and cheap insults.

Michael's journal collected dust on his shelf.

Eighth grade started August 28th and Michael had never felt heavier in his life. Every thought, every emotion he had let bottle up over the course of his summer, turned to lead and broken bones.

He dragged his feet and ignored teachers when they told him to take off his beanie.

When Michael discovered that he only had one class with Lindsay, he barely reacted. He wasn't surprised, and he wasn't sure why. Lindsay, however, threw a fit. She moaned and groaned, draping herself over Michael's desk with a whine. She practically ripped his schedule in half when she tore it out of his hands.

Over and over again, she compared them.

"English! We don't even like English class," she complained loudly. "This is bullshit."

After being chided by the teacher, Lindsay reluctantly parted from his desk with a pout.

Michael cracked a smile at her and she threw notes at his head for the rest of the period, none of which he replied to.

English, Geometry, US History, they all passed in a muted blurr. He stared at his teacher's horns in Science and doodled in his notebook in Art 1.

He did exactly what he had done last year, but everything felt wrong, like there was somewhere he was supposed to be but that somewhere didn't exist and he'd be stuck in some place he didn't belong for the rest of his life.

It made him sick to his stomach.  
He went down to the nurse's office and slept through Study Hall. The nurse, Mr. Ellis, shook him awake with an apologetic smile and a quip about the drool on his face. Michael managed a smile to humor him, his eyes straying to the furry, rounded ears on his head.

It wasn't every day that you met a bear hybrid.

Before he left, Mr. Ellis clapped a hand on his shoulder, gave him a late pass, and pointed him in the direction of his next class, Advanced Creative Writing.

Apparently, Ms. Eberle had been moved to a new classroom.

Michael wanted to be excited for her class, he just couldn't. He didn't know what the fuck was wrong with him and why his bones felt like they were made out of heavy wrought iron.

He forced his third smile of the day, straightened his back, and marched straight on in to her class. The moment the door swung open, all eyes were on him. He shrunk back into himself, eyes cast towards the floor as his grip tightened on his belongings, crumpling his late pass. His tail twitched nervously.

"Michael, finally! We're already ten minutes in. Your seat is right over there, next to Kerry. I think you two had the same period for Creative Writing last year, right?" Ms. Eberle said, pointing towards the boy. The mouse hybrid in question looked up, head tilted to the side. Kerry shrugged, glanced back to the white board, and Michael felt shunned.

He handed Ms. Eberle his late pass and shuffled to his new desk.

The rest of the class passed slowly. Michael didn't bother paying attention, all it was was pleasantries and stories of summer. He was vaguely aware of Kerry glancing over at him every few seconds or so.

Ms. Eberle gave them the last five minutes of class to talk to each other, catch up.

Michael didn't even get the chance to open his notebook before Kerry turned towards him, hands braced on his knees.

"Do you like Pokémon?" he asked, watching him carefully.

To say that the question had caught him off guard would be an understatement.

"Yeah," Michael replied, confused.

"Cards or DS?"

"DS."

"Awesome," Kerry said, grinning widely. "We have to battle sometime, I'll totally fuck you up."

Before the five minutes was up, friend codes were exchanged and favorite Pokémon were discussed. Michael couldn't help but get a sense of déjà vu as the thought of Lindsay flashed through his mind.

When the bell rang, Kerry shot out of his seat and ran out, but not before waving goodbye to Michael. He just sat there until all of the students had filtered out, his fingers idly flicking the corners of his notebook.

"Michael, how was your summer?" Ms. Eberle asked from across the room, tidying up a few piles of paper.

"Fine, I guess," Michael replied, shrugging.

"Did you ever fill up your journal all the way?"

The way she flashed him a quick smile made him feel queasy with guilt. Had she expected him to finish it?

"No, ma'am," he mumbled, barely keeping his voice loud enough for her to hear.

"Now's the perfect time to start up again. First day of the school year, new you, new experiences. If you ask me, it's perfect material for writing. Now, go on, go home, get some rest. You look tired."

That much was true.

Michael hurried out of the class, weaving through streams of students to get to his locker. He grabbed his backpack and shoved his books into it.

He practically ran home, racing up to his room to grab his journal. Michael threw it open on his desk and sat down, pencil poised for action. He stared and stared at the blank page before him, but nothing would come to him. Michael’s words were like sand, slipping through his fingers.

All he managed to write before his mom called him downstairs for dinner was one small word. Just one word, in three hours.

_Why?_

And down, down, down the drain, everything from there went downhill.

Lindsay caught on quickly. She distanced herself inch by inch until she and Michael were miles away. He wanted to believe that it didn't hurt him, seeing his first best friend run away from him like that, but late nights were spent looking through old texts and shedding a few more tears than he'd like to admit to.

Of course, he wouldn't admit that he didn't try to catch up to her either.

They stopped hanging out, stopped having conversations at midnight about what they thought death would feel like. They barely even glanced at each other in the halls at school.

Michael missed her to the point where it made him sick. He never told her though, he just pushed it away, back down into his chest to infect his heart instead.

Kerry was a bit slower, but nothing with the mouse hybrid ever really took off. They stayed school friends and nothing came from the friend code exchange. They stopped talking when they changed seats in Advanced Creative Writing. It hurt Michael to feel like he was that forgettable but he pushed that away too.

Sometimes, Michael caught himself staring at Kerry, trying to will him to look his way. It never worked.

That same year, the school's budget got cut and Ms. Eberle couldn't splurge on multicolored journals for her students. She strongly encouraged them to go pick up their own because whether it was a school assignment or not, she believed everyone should have one.

Michael never got a new one, he didn't even finish the old one.

Slowly but surely, it felt like the world distanced itself away from him. He felt lost and alone in his own damn home, walking to school felt like traveling between dimensions and getting stuck in between. He found himself stuck a lot in the places where stars didn't exist and flowers didn't bloom, where moms didn't smile and pets got ran over by cars.

Days and weeks melted together. He began to forget what day of the week is what, sometimes forgetting which month is was altogether. His grades wilted to steady B's and C's, and it seemed like he could never get enough sleep, even if he slept for fourteen hours a day.

He was so damn tired.

Michael began to take up napping as his favorite hobby, it gave him an excuse to play dead.

He worried his mom, he could tell. Hell, he could practically feel the waves of concern rolling off of her when she would see him in the mornings, just before she left for work at the plant nursery down the street and he walked to school. Her thick, white tail would twitch nervously and her eyes would follow the movement of his ears as they laid back against his head.

It was the same question every morning as she handed him his breakfast, a bowl of Cheerios and half a mandarin.

"Are you okay, Michael?"

His reply was always the same as he shoved a spoonful of cereal in his mouth alongside a slice of mandarin.

"Yeah, duh."

One morning, the question changed. Michael could still see her concern, plain as day, but she didn't say anything. Instead, it became,

"I'm thinking about buying a cherry tree but I'll have to work some overtime to make sure we have enough money to keep up with it. That alright with you, Michael?"

His answer didn't change.

Michael's mom began researching how to care for cherry trees, he did his best not to get in her way.

She reserved a cherry tree sapling for herself at the nursery in March, Michael didn't tell her that he felt like he was drowning.

His mom planted her first cherry tree in April, Michael found the tipping point.

Monday, like any other Monday, felt more like nothing. He laid in bed until his mom came up to knock on his door, telling him that his breakfast was ready and that she was heading out.

Michael waited until he heard the garage door open and close before he got up. He brushed his teeth, pulled on a beanie, and hunted for yesterday's hoodie. When he got down to the kitchen, there was a small bowl of cheap, off brand cereal on the table. He dumped the soggy mush into the sink and grabbed his mandarin half.

He dragged his feet as he walked to school, tossing half-eaten mandarin slices over fences and into yards.

A stray cat stole one from out of the road and Michael smiled slightly before tossing it the rest.

Michael was almost late for his first class. Halfway through, his minuscule breakfast started to churn in his stomach. English never was a good period for him, everything just felt darker each time he caught a flash of Lindsay's red hair. He missed her, he missed her so goddamn much.

She glanced back suddenly and caught him staring, her eyebrows raised in confusion.

Michael raised his hand and asked to be excused to the Nurse's Office. He swore, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lindsay roll her eyes.

His English teacher sighed, gave him that night's homework, and sent him on his way. The walk to the office felt like miles and when he arrived, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be there anymore.

There was another kid there, a boy about his age with bags under his eyes and a scowl on his face. He had an ace bandage wrapped around his wrist, the edge of a gauze pad peeking out from under it.

Mr. Ellis stood in front of him, arms folded.

"It's my job as a nurse to report this. Stay here while I go down to the office."

He turned and upon seeing Michael, he frowned, just ever so slightly. Michael took a step back, staring down at the floor.

"Michael? What's wrong?" Mr. Ellis asked, stepping up to stand in front of him. Michael could see the boy snickering silently into his hand behind the nurse.

"Not feeling good," Michael mumbled.

"Again? Alright, go lay down, I'll be back in a few minutes."

He clapped Michael on the shoulder before jogging out. Michael shuffled to the bed and sat down, trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with the other kid. The boy, however, wasn't having it.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he snorted.

"I could ask you the same thing," Michael retorted, the exhaustion in his voice doing nothing to soften the sharp, irritated edges of it.

"It's not like you wouldn't know," the kid said, rolling his eyes. He walked up and took a seat next to Michael. The curly-haired boy could see his fingers trembling as he tucked them in his lap.

"I don't," Michael replied blandly.

"You don't?"

"What did I just say?"

"Nevermind then, Jesus Christ."

"You got my attention, asshole, now talk," Michael snapped, turning towards him.

"I don't even know you," the other kid said, a forced chuckle laced into each word.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know you a second ago either when you thought I knew what the fuck you were talking about. It's not different now."

The boy just stared at him, eyes narrowed in a way that made Michael feel small and feeble.

He shoved his wrist towards Michael and peeled back the top of the bandage.

Michael doesn't know what he had expected to see but it almost knocks him off the bed all the same. Thick, angry red lines glared at him. He could practically see the whispers of lonely nights trickle away from under the bandaging.

"Some of them split open when I tripped on my way to class, that's why I'm here now. Mr. Ellis just left to go call my parents. I'm so fucked," he muttered, pulling his wrist back to himself to cradle it against his stomach as he slumped down.

"You... cut?" Michael whispered, scared to speak any louder.

"You don't need to talk like that, it's not like it's a secret anymore."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?" the boy asked, confused.

"I mean, why the fuck would you do that?" Michael replies, suddenly feeling more antsy than he had before.

"It's hard to explain. It just feels better after I do it, like a release, you know? Why am I even fucking telling you? I don't know you.”

"Yeah, you said that about ten seconds ago. Why are you telling me, anyways? It doesn't even sound like you told your fucking parents," Michael snorted, glancing over at him. The boy had slumped down even further as if he were slowly deflating.

"I just want someone to know. I mean, you look like my kind of shit, have you told your parents?"

"Fuck off, you don't know me."

"Have you told them?" he asked again, his voice firm.

"Her, okay, her. I got my fucking mom and you don't know my fucking problems!"

"So, no?"

"Piss off, dude."

"Yeah, no," the boy sighed, sitting back up straight. "I just wanted somebody to know. You know, understand that I exist and this exists."

Michael stayed silent. He didn't know what to say, how could he help somebody else when he couldn't even help himself?

"Endure and survive, dude," Michael suddenly mumbled, looking back down at the tiles.

"Did you just... did you just quote The Last of Us?" the boy snorted, hints of laughter in his voice.

Michael glanced up and when he spotted the grin on his face, he couldn't help but smile back. Silence stretched between them and a few minutes later, Mr. Ellis finally got back with pity in his eyes and a check-out note for the boy.

That was the first and last time Michael and the boy spoke. Weeks later, a rumor floated around about him killing himself. Michael ignored it.

But for the rest of that day, he couldn't get the thought of those cuts out of his head. How could anyone enjoy that? Did it actually work? He couldn't focus in class, images of red ribbons and bandages and razors dancing through the back of his mind.

Each class, the teacher's voice sounded like grinding metal, sharp like the edges of fragmented glass. His classmates laughed and all that flooded his mind was TV static. When they stood, he sat. When they left, he stayed. All of his teachers had to remind him that class was over, a scowl masquerading as a smile as they chuckled and told him to get a move on.

In Art 1, Michael dragged his thumb nail against the soft skin of his inner wrist. A streak of warmth trailed behind, catching on each vein. He took a moment to pretend to paint with the blood he hadn't drawn.

A boy next to him snorted,

"What the fuck?"

Michael pretended not to hear that either, even if anger knocked against his chest like it was asking to be let in.

His Science teacher snapped at him for daydreaming. Michael had shrunk into his chair, eyes cast downward. He could hear the other students snickering, trading insults with each other at the expense of Michael's humiliation.

A poster of America's Presidents stared him down for the entirety of US History, but he stared right back, eyes narrowed. When the teacher recited the text book page numbers for their homework, it barely registered in his mind. He didn’t even bother asking one of his classmates, he knew he wouldn’t even do the homework.

Michael trudged back to the Nurse's Office during study hall, feigning sickness. He laid down and slept for an hour, before Mr. Ellis woke him up and ushered him back into the hallway. 

When he stumbled into the hall, Lindsay stood just a yard away from him, hall pass crumpled in her hand. She looked at him with wide eyes before shaking her head and hurrying past him to the girl's bathroom. Michael just watched her go, a phantom ache in his stomach and a weak smile on his face. He said a quiet goodbye to Lindsay, just loud enough for only him to hear. It didn't make him feel any better though, knowing he'd always be attached to her and their memories.

By the time Advanced Creative Writing came around, Michael felt like he had more energy than he had had in an entire year. He bounced his leg and tapped his pen in rapid succession of each other. Not before long, Ms. Eberle scolded him and a few kids around him snickered.

He could see Kerry chuckle to himself a few rows away. Michael's chest tightened and his energy bled into his veins, sending electric currents through his fingers. They trembled, practically vibrating as his nerves pulsed.

Michael's mom was in the garden when he got home, glaring down the cherry tree. It was beginning to bend in the middle, leaves drooping as if the atmosphere weighed down on them. A breeze drifted through and nudged the tree, the leaves shaking like the knees of a newborn lamb. He didn’t bother with going out to tell her he had gotten home, she’d figure out sooner or later. Besides, he didn’t want her glare baring down on him instead of the cherry tree.

It seemed sick, like him. Except if someone tied rope around the place that bent the most on him, it’d kill him. The tree would just stand up straighter.

Michael threw his backpack onto his floor and sat down on his bed, fingers clasped together tightly in his lap. He reached up to pull his beanie over his eyes, hoping to God it would erase the images of razors racing through his mind.

It didn’t. Michael wasn’t surprised.

His mom came in an hour later, hands clenched into fists by her hips. He could see the frustration weighing down on her, but it was like she had never stood up straighter before. She declared she was going out, Michael didn’t ask where. She left him money for pizza and ran out less than fifteen minutes later.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

It took an hour, alone, for Michael to self-destruct. The digital clock on his nightstand flashed 5:30. His mom was still gone and Michael wasn’t hungry, but still empty. He rose to his feet, his chest heaving. He was so fucking empty, emptier than he had ever been.

He deserved this, didn’t he? Michael did nothing but push everyone away. Lindsay was gone, Kerry was never there to begin with. Hell, he couldn’t even look at his own mother anymore and imagine her being there the next day. He deserved this; he deserved all of it.

A rough sob tore through his throat, shredding it as it wrenched its way out. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks and blurred his vision. Michael ripped off his beanie and stormed out of his room, his stomps practically echoing off of the hardwood flooring in the hallway. He slammed his shoulder into the doorway to the bathroom, knocking himself onto his knees on the tile.

Sharp pain reverberated through his entirety and he just laid down and stayed there, crying. Michael curled up on himself and clutched his shoulder with his left hand, less to try and alleviate the pain, more so to try and hold himself together. But he had been falling apart for so long, there were too many missing pieces to even try at that point.

What seemed like centuries drifted by and Michael finally pulled him up onto his feet. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were blood-shot, his cheeks were rubbed raw from wiping away tears, and the bags that had taken up permanent residence under his eyes seemed to be getting worse, especially now.

He forced his eyes away from his reflection, down to the counter. On the right, just at the rim of the sink, was his razor. His mom had gotten it for him that year as a belated birthday gift, just in case that part of puberty snuck up on him early.

It didn’t, but he still kept it by the side of his sink.

Michael stared at it, watched the way the four individual blades winked at him when he shifted his head. He grabbed it with trembling fingers and popped off the razor head, letting it tumble into the sink. He threw the handle into one of his drawers and grabbed the head, digging his fingertips into the blades. He hissed as the pain pinched his skin, and when he pulled his hand away to look at the damage, the only clue he got that he had ever touched the razor was a few pieces of raised skin.

Michael tore it apart desperately. He ripped out the plastic retaining clips with a pair of tweezers and dumped the blades onto his countertop. He shifted his head again, this time tilting it sideways, and the razors winked at him again.

He pinched one of the blades between his fingers and brought his wrist forward. The skin was pale and if Michael stared hard enough, he could pretend to see the blood rushing through his veins. The cold tip of the razor pressed to the skin. How hard was he supposed to press? How deep was he supposed to go?

Michael shrugged to mime nonchalance, struggling to ignore the pit of nausea forming in his stomach.

He gasped as he dragged the razor along the delicate skin. The blade dipped and he stretched his hand back, watching the vermilion drops bead up in the wound.

And with one came another, and another, and another.

Soon, Michael couldn't feel at all as he sliced his wrist into ribbons. Blood dripped off of his weeping skin, painting the sink a morose mix of deep reds and porcelain white. He understood now, what the boy meant when he said it was a release. Quietly, in the same breath, he thanked and cursed him for the idea.

Michael finally dropped the razor, listening to it clink against the sink as it fell towards the drain. His chest heaved as he took a breath. His wrist looked like a thousand smiling faces pressed to his skin, like kisses from a woman, sharper than any razor could ever be.

He smiled, they smiled back.

When Michael finally washed the blood away, his mother still wasn't home.

When he found an Ace bandage in his drawers after an hour of scrounging around, she was still no where to be seen.

He was settling into bed around midnight with a glass of water and a mandarin, his wrist aching, when his phone vibrated. It was a text from his mom.

**From: momma jones**  
 **To: mighty mogar jones**  
 **Mon Dec 3, 2012, 12:03 am**  
 _hI honEY *** thoes were ksses. Went to frnds, am drunk, will b hoome in morninhg lol gnite cubby wubhy_

Michael rolled his eyes and shoved his phone onto the floor. Of course, he shouldn't have expected anything else. He ate his mandarin slowly and chugged the water before going to bed, pulling the sheets up and over his head. He'd probably wake up before he suffocated, but there was always a chance he wouldn't.

In all honesty, Michael knew where everything had begun. He had been the only one who paid close enough attention to his life, he had to know the details. Sometimes, just sometimes, he’d be able to pretend that it had all appeared one day. The depression, the anger, the scars and scabs. It hadn't though, and sometimes he had to admit that he had felt like shit for a very long time.

And that's where he found himself, a year later and somehow emptier than before. Ninth grade had been hell, he had barely scraped by with C's. His mom was always either drunk or attending to her cherry trees, too busy to berate him for his low grades.

Lindsay got a new group of friends, Kerry moved away. In all honesty though, it's not like either of them remembered Michael existed.

His only comforts came from his razors, all of them hidden away in nooks and crannies, and his Xbox. He could play and cut until he couldn't see straight, and to Michael, that was the life. It was the saddest excuse of life Michael could think of, but goddammit, it was his. The emptiness, the regret, the cuts that were a little too deep for comfort, it was his. It was all his and he wanted to keep it that way.

Of course, he wanted friends too, but no one wanted to hang out with a cutter. It didn't take long for the rumor to spread. He wore long-sleeves and hoodies in the middle of summer, just to hide the scars, and ignored anybody who asked if he was hot.

When summer finally dragged its ass to his doorstep and stone-cold kicked school out, he rewarded himself a new razor for making it past 9th grade. He hid it away in his old journal, nostalgia leaking into his scarred skin.

Before he shut himself in his room for the majority of summer, he stepped out into the backyard to see his mom. The cherry trees were coming along nicely, all lined up against the back of their fence. They'd bear fat, juicy cherries in no time, his mom was sure of it.

The moment he shut the door behind him and stepped onto the patio, his mom spoke, glass of wine in hand.

"You know, the Ramseys just got a kid from the UK a few days ago. He's about your age and says the weirdest things. You should head down there, talk to him. I’d think you’d like him, and it’d give you an excuse to get out of your room once in a while. Actually, why don’t we go head down there in an hour? I baked cookies earlier as a welcome gift, hope the kid likes chocolate chip. I was just waiting for you to get home so I could take you with me,” she rattled off, a small smile on her face and something that looked a little like hope in her eyes.

Michael’s ears twitched before he nodded.

“Sure.”

“Great! I just need to get cleaned up, I’ve been back here with the beauties since I got home from work.”

Wordlessly, he nodded again and walked back inside. Frustration pounded in his ears. What if Michael didn’t even want to meet this stupid fucking new kid? He did his best to quell his temper, shoving it back down into the bottom of his chest. He’d have to clean up too, take a quick shower. Michael had been sweating all day in his hoodie, he didn’t exactly smell pleasant anymore.

True to his mother’s word, they were out the door an hour later. Michael had thrown on his lightest long-sleeve and a pair of shorts, but the heat of summer still beat down on him ferociously. His mom walked next to him, a large plate of cookies in her arms.

She didn’t comment on his long-sleeve, and he didn’t ask why she made so many goddamn cookies.


End file.
